


One Step Away

by buddyonacloud



Category: The Smiths
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Internalized Homophobia, Love Triangle, M/M, Marrissey, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buddyonacloud/pseuds/buddyonacloud
Summary: You can't feed all five senses just to neglect the sixth.
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Sight

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially the first multi-chapter fanfic I manage to finish ( ~~and it only took me like seven months~~ ) so... hooray for me!  
> Whether this is any good or not, however, it's an entirely different story lmao
> 
> The title comes from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgvmTCY2eYs   
> which gives me THE strongest Marrissey vibes ever.
> 
> I'm also not a native English speaker so if you find any mistakes that's why.  
> Hope you like some gratuitous angst, because you're about to get some.  
> Enjoy!

The man on his doorstep looks impossibly young and dishevelled, but also familiar.  
He's sure he's seen him before, but he can't remember when or where and maybe that's for the best.  
There's someone else with him though, a guy he already knows called Stephen Pomfret, but he barely notices him as his companion is looking straight at him with a smile that's both hopeful and cocky.  
"You're Steven, right?".  
He asks.  
He's always hated his Christian name but, for some reason, it doesn't sound as bad when he says it.  
"I'm Johnny. And this is Pommy, but I think you two already know each other."  
He and Pomfret acknowledge each other with a quick nod.  
"Can we come in? We'd like to talk to you about something."  
There's a split-second of hesitation as letting Johnny into his house makes him feel nervous, even though he isn't exactly sure why.   
"Of course."  
He then says, moving away from the door.  
Both him and Pommy quickly rub their shoes on the doormat, which he appreciates. They aren't hooligans after all.  
As he's stepping inside, Johnny shoots him a conspiratorial grin to which he finds himself responding to, even though he can't properly meet his eye.  
He doesn't feel physically threatened by him - Johnny is at least five inches shorter than he is and almost certainly underweight - but there's something about the way he moves, something about the self-assurance with which he's now looking around at the trinkets on the mantlepiece and the family pictures on the walls, not only as if he's already part of the place, but as if he's thinking about staking a claim on it... it's an intensity which could easily be mistaken for arrogance and that must have put him in trouble quite a few times in the past.  
"Shall we go upstairs?"  
Steven asks, breaking what was about to become an awkwardly long silence.  
They both nod, following him up the narrow staircase and to his bedroom.  
He sits on his bed while Johnny sits on his desk chair, glancing at the half-written piece of paper still stuck into his typewriter.   
"A gig review for the NME."  
He explains.  
Johnny nods pensively, before looking back at him.  
"You've written quite a few of these."  
Not a question but a full-on statement, as if he's already read all of them.  
He hopes he hasn't, as some of them were dripping with an ill-concealed bitterness that now makes him cringe.  
He shrugs.  
"What can I say? I'm a prolific wordsmith."  
That cocky smile again.  
"Well, that's lucky for us. It looks like we're in the right place after all."  
He's about to ask him what he means when Pomfret, who's spent the last few minutes staring at his bookshelves, decides he's bored with them and starts rummaging through his records instead.  
An idea suddenly strikes him.  
"Wait."  
He says, getting up and walking to his record player.  
Pommy raises his eyebrows before backing away, taking his place on the bed.  
Steven looks at Johnny, who hasn't moved.  
"Would you like to play a record?"  
He asks.   
He hates how coy he sounds - this is his room after all - but he can't help it.  
Johnny gets up and walks straight towards him before looking inside the box he keeps his records in.  
He then proceeds to examine them with a clinically serious expression.  
"Okay, how about this?"  
He asks as he pulls out a Marvelettes' single, _Paperboy._  
"Good choice."  
He then flips it and only at that point does he put it on the record player, the soft, soulful notes of Paperboy's b-side _You're The One_ gracefully filling the room.  
Steven looks at the glamorous young man who's standing beside him, smiling and nodding away.  
Life might still have something in store for him after all.


	2. Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Johnny smiles as he gets up and he takes his guitar off his neck, putting it back in its case.  
>  "Well, I think we're definitely going somewhere here."  
> Steven smiles back, the voice inside his head making itself heard once again.  
> 'This is what you wanted, right? Right??'._

They meet again a few days later and this time it's just the two of them.  
Well, the two of them and Angie, Johnny's long-time girlfriend.  
She's the one who picks him up from the train station and drives him to Bowdon, where Johnny is currently living, before going to work.  
They're going to write songs together and try to get a musical partnership going.  
He chats to her as they're making their way through the city's traffic, but it feels like an out-of-body experience.  
He likes her, but the small voice inside his head - the same voice that keeps him awake at night whispering terrible yet seductive ideas in his ear, telling him the world would be better off without him - keeps posing the same inane question:  
 _'What were you expecting?'_

Johnny's room is even more crammed than his own, with clothes and records everywhere.  
Not to mention the guitars, with relative paraphernalia.  
"Have a seat, I'll be there in a sec!"  
Johnny says before disappearing into the kitchen.  
Steven hesitates for a moment, before moving away a pile of folded jeans and trendy t-shirts and sitting carefully on the mattress.  
It's a double bed, which probably means Angie isn't just there during the day.  
He could've sat on the chair, but there's an amp on it and he doesn't dare to touch it.  
The scribbled bits of paper he brought are digging a hole in his pocket.  
Snarky reviews aside, he's never shared his writings with anyone before and the fact that he's about to show them to Johnny, even though they've only just met, marks today's encounter as one of the most intimate life experiences he's ever had.  
There are some light footsteps across the hallway and then Johnny's back, holding two cans of beer.  
"You've made yourself comfortable, great!".  
He says as he hands him one of the cans.  
"Actually, I don't..."  
Steven stutters, hating himself.  
Johnny pauses, raising his eyebrows.  
He then bursts out laughing, but not in a nasty way.   
"I'm sorry."  
He says, shaking his head.  
"I didn't think you were the Guinness type, but we ran out of tea this morning and I thought it'd be rude not to offer you anything."  
"That's fine, I still appreciate the gesture. And I shall choose to ignore that thinly veiled insult to my manhood."  
Johnny puts the beer cans away.  
"It wasn't an insult. Quite the opposite, actually. I wish I could do without it myself."  
"Yeah but you're still so young... you've got plenty of time."  
Johnny moves the amp away from his chair.  
"You're talking as if you're eighty or something."  
"Sometimes I feel like I am."  
He picks up one of his guitars, strumming its chords to make sure it's properly tuned.  
"Well, you look great for your age."  
Steven is glad Johnny's eyes are still fixed on the instrument as he says that, so he can't see him blushing.  
"Right, I'm all set!"  
He puts his guitar around his neck, dragging the chair right in front of Steven before sitting on it.  
At this point, he and Johnny are directly facing each other and they're so close their knees are touching.  
There's a slightly awkward pause as they both go:  
"So..."  
They both start chuckling, the ice finally broken.  
"I- I brought you something. Some stuff I wrote."  
Steven blurts out, sliding his hand inside his coat's pocket and pulling out a bunch of crumpled, half-written pieces of paper.  
"Well, why didn't you tell me sooner?! Let's take a look!".  
The first one he shows him is also the oldest thing he wrote, a short, silly poem called _Don't Blow Your Own Horn._  
They play around with that for a bit, but neither of them is thrilled with it.  
In the end, Johnny throws in the towel.  
"Sorry, but I just can't get anything out of that. What else have you got?".  
His second piece is far more serious, if not ominous, a composition which he titled _The Hand That Rocks The Cradle._  
This seems to go down better and, after about ten minutes, Johnny has already come up with a haunting yet perfectly fitting riff which leaves him speechless, because this man is clearly so much more talented than he is and when he asks him:  
"So, what d'you think?" Steven can't do anything but nod and give him his last piece of paper.  
The Moor Murders had defined his childhood and he knew it was only a matter of luck he'd not ended up as one of the victims.  
When he stumbles across the title, _Suffer Little Children_ , Johnny gives him a slightly perplexed look but, after reading the entire thing, he just nods and cradles his guitar, ready to work his magic once again.  
And once again, it's with an incredible quickness that he comes up with a second riff which is almost ethereal in its simplicity.  
Johnny then asks Steven to sing, to which he hesitantly obliges, and they play both songs back to back.  
When they're done they stare at each other, barely daring to breathe.  
The silence is broken by the flat's door being opened, immediately followed by Angie's voice:  
"Hey, I'm home!".  
Johnny smiles as he gets up and he takes his guitar off his neck, putting it back in its case.  
"Well, I think we're definitely going somewhere here."  
Steven smiles back, the voice inside his head making itself heard once again.  
 _This is what you wanted, right? Right??_


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"How did we do?"  
>  He asks her.  
> "You were great!".  
> She says, running her hand through his hair.  
> The fact that she can do that and nobody bats an eyelid... the fact that it's seen as completely natural and even sweet and romantic and desirable, yet if HE were to do the same to him, it would be seen as an abomination..._

**(Two years later)**

_\- Sheffield, 1984_

"See, you put your index here, while your middle finger goes up there... and both your ring finger and your little finger stay down here... no, slightly to the left... yes, there you go."  
Morrissey stares at Johnny's hands as he helps him putting his clumsy fingers into position.  
"Is it always this heavy?".  
He then asks, the weight of Johnny's guitar pressing on his legs.  
"Yeah, but you get used to it after a while."  
"Am I gonna be the new... who's a guitarist that young, hip people like?".  
Johnny raises his eyebrows in faux-outrage.  
"I mean... I'm right here, Moz."  
Their intimacy is suddenly shattered by a flying, dirty t-shirt hitting Johnny right on the head.  
"What the- ew, that's rank!"  
He grimaces as Mike, naked from the waist up, pisses himself laughing in the corner.  
"Seriously, when was the last time you showered, you stinky bugger?!"  
Morrissey sighs, putting Johnny's guitar aside.  
Wake up and smell the roses, indeed.

A couple of hours later, they're on stage.  
Johnny's playing _Still Ill_ with his back turned to him, which means Morrissey can sing: _"It just wasn't like the old days anymore"_ while longingly staring at him without repercussions.  
They've been touring non-stop for almost a year now and Morrissey can't remember when was the last time they were able to spend some time together, just the two of them.  
They're still writing songs, but they have to do it in the spare time between one show and the other and most of their conversations are now work-related.  
His friend Linder was usually a patient person but, after the fifth call in a week about his emotional turmoil, even she'd had enough.  
"Why are you so pressed about this? You're both part of a successful band, you talk to each other every day..."  
"Yes, but that's not what I mean."  
"Well, what DO you mean?"  
"..."  
"Why is that not enough? You can't expect to be the centre of his universe, Moz."  
_'But why not?'_ he wanted to ask.  
Instead, he just sighed and Linder asked him not to call her for the next few days, unless it was an emergency.  
Except the Johnny situation WAS an emergency, and he wasn't sure he could handle it for much longer without going clinically insane.  
The voice inside his head had been especially talkative in the past few weeks.  
_'You know he doesn't care about you. Not in the same way you care about him. And frankly, why would he? He's beautiful, popular and talented, with a supportive girlfriend who one day will make a wonderful wife. He's not a freak of nature like you are. He's normal, and he has the right to a normal, happy life. Why would you taint that?'._  
**_Because I love him._**  
_'Well, what is love, at the end of the day? And why would love be more important than anything else?'_  
**_Because that's what all the books and the movies say. Love is the most important thing in life. Love conquers anything._**  
_'Yeah, the love between a MAN and a WOMAN. And who's the woman here, exactly? And most importantly, who's the man?'_  
**_But why does that matter? We're approaching the 21st century! Are we really still preoccupied with...?_**  
_'Yes, we are. We all live in a society and, as in denial as you are about it, in the eyes of that very society you ARE still ill.'_

One of the newest song they've written, _Barbarism Begins At Home,_ is going down a storm.  
During the solo at the end, Morrissey gets closer to Johnny and he starts dancing around him, to which he instantly responds by mirroring his moves. They've done this before and they look like two demented sharks circling a non-existent prey, but it's one of the few instances in which mutual contact is not only appreciated but, to an extent, even encouraged.  
They close their set with a frenetic rendition of _You've Got Everything Now_ and then they're off.  
The backstage area is quite crowded.  
Mike has invited some childhood friends to see him play and now he's chatting to them.  
Andy hangs around them for a few minutes before deciding he's bored of hearing other people's anecdotes, so he grabs a beer bottle and then disappears.  
Morrissey slumps on a chair in the corner, trying to catch his breath.  
"Hey. How are you feeling?".  
Angie asks, sitting in front of him.  
"On the verge of an asthma attack. Which is bad, considering I've never had one."  
She smiles. She's about to reply with something comforting when Johnny comes in.  
"Hey, babe!".  
His expression goes from drained to radiant in a matter of seconds.  
He walks up to her, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing her on her forehead before playfully sitting on her knees.  
Morrissey looks down at the stained carpet. As tawdry as it is, it's still less painful to watch.  
"How did we do?"  
He asks her.  
"You were great!".  
She says, running her hand through his hair.  
The fact that she can do that and nobody bats an eyelid... the fact that it's seen as completely natural and even sweet and romantic and desirable, yet if HE were to do the same to him, it would be seen as an abomination...  
He gets up and heads for the door.  
"Hey! Wait, Moz, where are you...?"  
"I need some fresh air."  
He says, not untruthfully.  
**_'... AND some hemlock. But then again, that's probably hard to find in the industrial North of England.'_**


	4. Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His scent is now all around him and it's so overwhelming Morrissey has to close his eyes, fighting back the tears.  
>  He's not for him.  
> He's never been for him and it's time he realises that._

**(Six months later)**

He finds the jacket stuck underneath the sofa cushions.  
It's the denim one which he was also wearing at their last photoshoot.  
He turns it over in his hands for a bit, thinking about what to do next.  
He should call Johnny, tell him he found it and give it back to him next time they see each other... except he can't bring himself to get up and reach for the phone.  
If the jacket was big enough he would probably try it on, but what he does instead is pressing his face against the fabric, closing his eyes and inhaling Johnny's scent.  
He was there last night.  
He'd come round to talk to Morrissey about some of the most recent issues they were having with Rough Trade.  
They couldn't do that in the studio because Andy and Mike weren't as involved in the business side of things as they were and they didn't want to waste valuable recording time.  
The new album was coming along, but things were moving slower than they liked and there was still all the admin to deal with.  
"We should get a manager, Moz. We can't keep doing this, on top of everything else."  
Johnny said for the umpteenth time.  
Morrissey nodded and offered him a cup of tea.  
"Don't you ever get bored, here?"  
He then asked, looking around at the immaculate kitchen.  
Morrissey had recently bought a house in Earl's Court and was now living there on his own.  
"Not really" he shrugged "You know, some of us don't need constant overstimulation to feel fulfilled."  
Johnny grinned, lifting his mug.  
"Touché."  
Pause.  
"It must get lonely, though."  
"You know I don't mind my own company. I certainly mind it less than spending time with people I don't really care about."  
"Yeah, but still-"  
"Johnny, are you trying to tell me something?"  
"Well..."  
He stirred in his chair, looking vaguely uncomfortable.  
"Angie has a lot of friends, you know. Nice, intelligent girls. If you wanted to, we could..."  
"Are you trying to set me up with someone?".  
He asked, stifling a fit of laughter.  
Johnny averted his eyes and blushed slightly.  
"I genuinely think it would be good for you, Moz. I mean, you're not bad to look at..."  
Morrissey flinched.  
"That's very kind of you, but you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine as I am."  
"It's just that me, Andy and Mike... we all have someone, and you-"  
"I HAVE someone."  
He snapped, looking pointedly at Johnny.  
"Well, you know what I mean..."  
He mumbled, slowly putting down his now empty mug.  
"No I don't, actually."  
Morrissey retorted, crossing his arms.  
"Why do you think I would need a romantic partner?"  
"For balance. For companionship. For love. For all sorts of reason!"  
"Romance is not for everyone, Johnny."  
He said, turning his back to him and gripping the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles went white.  
"Yeah, but how do you know it's not for you? You've never-"  
"Enough!"  
He interjected, slamming his hands on the kitchen counter and then turning to face him.  
"My solitude is not making me uncomfortable. It's making YOU uncomfortable, and maybe you should ask yourself why that is, instead of making me feel like I'm doing something wrong with my life."  
"I just want you to be happy, Moz."  
Johnny whispered, his eyes still lowered.  
"But I am, Johnny. I'm happy every time you come around here."  
Johnny blushed again.  
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Morrissey lifted his hand to stop him.  
"Please. Let's just leave it there. Now: are you staying for dinner or what?"

They'd ended up on his couch watching _Payroll,_ an old movie Morrissey had already seen.  
"You know... he looks a bit like you."  
He said pointing at Blackie, the character portrayed by Tom Bell.  
Johnny furrowed his brow.  
"Nah. He's far more handsome than I'll ever be."  
"Nonsense."  
Morrissey tutted.  
Johnny turned to look at him but said nothing.  
They were sitting quite close to each other and they were both feeling drowsy.  
When the movie reached its gruesome end, Morrissey turned to see Johnny had fallen asleep.  
He stared at him for a while, looking more calm and peaceful than he'd ever seen him, with his mouth slightly open and his chest slowly rising and falling with every breath.  
He got up as quietly as he could, took out a blanket from one of the cupboards and put it on top of him. He then turned the lights off and went up to his bedroom.

The morning after, the sofa was empty.  
Morrissey sighed, went into the kitchen and found a note on the table:

_'Moz,  
Thank you for letting me crash last night. Sorry I didn't say goodbye but I had to run.  
See you next Monday at rehearsals.  
Love, Johnny.'_

He made himself a cup of tea, picked up the note and went back into the living room.  
The blanket had been accurately folded and put on the armrest.  
He sat on the sofa, wild thoughts running through his mind.  
_'See, you had your chance and you wasted it. You really are hopeless.'_  
**_My chance to do WHAT, exactly?_**  
_'Your chance to do what you've been wanting to do since he knocked on your door. He was lying right there, like Sleeping Beauty, and all you had to do was...'_  
**_...wake him up with a kiss? Sure, because that's not assault or anything._**  
_'Fine then, just pine for him for the rest of your life and write some more repressed songs about him. If you want to suffer, you might as well capitalise on it.'_

It was at that point that he'd found it.  
He saw a bit of blue fabric peeping from under one of the sofa cushions, he pulled on it and he found himself holding Johnny's denim jacket.

His scent is now all around him and it's so overwhelming Morrissey has to close his eyes, fighting back the tears.  
He's not for him.  
He's never been for him and it's time he realises that.  
He rereads Johnny's note, he turns it over and he picks up a pen.  
Struck by a sudden, demanding wave of inspiration, he starts to write:  
_'I Know It's Over'._


	5. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Why?'  
>  He would ask himself that question many times over the following years..._

"I think I'm drunk."  
"Yeah, I think you're right."  
It seems like the more he tries to walk straight, the more he finds himself staggering.  
He loses his balance once again, swaying a bit too far to the left and bumping into Johnny's shoulder.  
"Whoah there! Careful, Moz!".  
He laughs, wrapping his arm around his waist to prevent him from falling and Morrissey finds himself taking advantage of Johnny's kindness by holding onto him a bit more tightly than it's necessary.  
"Do you know where we're going?"  
"... sort of."  
It was the last date of their North American tour, they'd played to a sold-out venue and, after the show, they'd decided to go out for a celebratory drink.  
Even Morrissey, who usually didn't participate in those rituals of debauchery, had let Johnny convince him to join the party.  
They'd started at the hotel bar where they had a first round of pints, immediately followed by a quick round of Tequila shots.  
They then moved to a faux Irish pub nearby, where alcohol kept flowing for the next hour.   
They even attempted a round of darts, but that came to an abrupt end when Mike, who by then was already quite tipsy, accidentally stabbed Andy in the arm.  
The two then wisely decided to call it a night and retreated back to the hotel followed by Angie, who had a first aid kit in her room and wanted to medicate Andy's cut.  
"Are you sure you two are gonna be alright on your own?".  
She asked them before leaving.  
"Yeah, don't worry, we won't be too long anyway."  
That prediction would turn out to be inaccurate, but she wasn't to know.  
"Okay then. Needless to say Moz, I'm counting on you to keep an eye on this one."  
She said, pointing at Johnny.  
"I'll do my best."  
He replied, lifting his pint.  
When she and the others left, Johnny turned to Morrissey.  
"Have you ever tried Absinthe?" he asked, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Are you tired?".  
Johnny now asks as they're approaching the hotel.  
"Not really."  
He is actually, but it's been so good spending the last two hours alone with him, talking about their dreams and their (professional) future together, just like when they'd first met, he doesn't want that night to end yet.  
"Me neither."  
There's a pause as they look at each other, something shifting between them.  
"Listen... I don't wanna wake Angie up. We could go to your room and have one last drink before bed."  
Even though he's sobered up in the meantime, Morrissey doesn't trust himself enough to articulate a full sentence, so he just nods and follows Johnny into the hotel lobby and up to the third floor, where they're staying.  
The lift is broken and so they have to crawl up the stairs, which is no easy feat considering the state they're in.  
"Are you alright?"  
Johnny asks him when they finally reach Morrissey's room.  
Morrissey shakes his head, then nods, then grimaces.  
"I mean... we could just leave it if you're not up for it."  
"Nonsense. You know I'm always up for it, if it's with you."  
He replies, not knowing exactly where those words are coming from or what he actually means as he's saying them.  
He then tries to put the key into the lock to open the door to his room, but he keeps missing. Apparently, he's not as sober as he thought he was.  
After the third failed attempt, Johnny grabs his hand, gently but firmly.  
"Hey. Let me do it."  
Even though he drank as much alcohol as Morrissey did, if not more, he looks perfectly clear-headed as he turns the key into the lock and finally opens the door.  
They stumble inside and Johnny heads straight for the mini bar, - which is actually just a portable fridge with some mould around the corners - while Morrissey goes to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water in a vague attempt to regain some composure.  
He partially succeeds and, when he comes out, he feels human again.  
"Wine?"  
Johnny asks, waving a bottle in his direction.  
"Is it French?"  
Morrissey asks, wrinkling his nose.  
Johnny stares at the label.  
"I don't know. It doesn't say."  
"Oh, go on then."  
He concedes, sitting on the edge of his bed as Johnny pours some of the red, thick liquid inside two glasses.  
"There you go."  
Johnny says, offering him one.  
As he accepts it, Morrissey's fingers brush lightly against Johnny's.  
"Cheers."  
They both say, clinking their glasses together.  
There's a pause as they both take a sip.  
"You know... I wasn't a drinker when I first met you."  
Morrissey's tone isn't accusatory, but rather contemplative.  
Johnny smirks.  
"I've been a bad influence. I corrupted you and brought you over to the dark side."  
He's joking, but Morrissey's expression is deadly serious as he replies:  
"You have indeed, you know. In more ways than one."  
There's a long pause as Johnny leans with his back against the dresser, directly facing Morrissey.  
"What do you mean?"  
Morrissey shakes his head with a defeated smile.  
"Nothing, really."  
"Oh Moz, come on..."  
"You wouldn't understand."  
Morrissey cuts him off even though he hates the way he sounds, like a teenager being patronised by an unsympathetic parent.  
Johnny's mouth is now agape and he looks indignant.  
"I wouldn't understand?! Moz, it's ME!"  
"Yeah. Well, that's the point, I'm afraid."  
Johnny shoots him a confused look.  
"What does that even...?"  
"I know it's you, Johnny, and that's the problem. It's always been you."  
There's a longer, charged silence as the meaning of those words fully hits Johnny.  
"Always?".  
He then whispers moving one step closer to Morrissey, who's still sitting on the edge of the bed.  
Morrissey nods.  
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"  
"I thought I did. _Hand In Glove, These Things Take Time, Ask..._ I mean, the clues were there."  
Johnny closes his eyes, inhaling sharply.  
"You know I don't pay attention to the words."  
"Yes, I gathered that."  
Morrissey doesn't mean to sound as biting as he does, and yet he can't help himself.  
"Well, what do you expect me to do with... _this?"_  
Johnny asks after a pause.  
"Nothing you'd end up regretting for the rest of your life."  
Morrissey replies, shooting him a meaningful look.  
"Don't be daft."  
Johnny says, before gulping down the rest of his wine.  
He turns the empty glass over in his hands while giggling softly.  
"You're damned if you do and damned if you don't."  
He whispers to himself.  
Morrissey gets up.  
"Maybe you should go. It's late and Angie will be waiting for y-"  
He's interrupted by Johnny's mouth suddenly on his.  
It takes a few seconds for Morrissey to realise this is not a drill and they're actually kissing.  
They're kissing, and it's Johnny who started it.  
They're kissing, and it's not just a peck on the lips but a full-on make-out session, with Johnny's tongue suddenly entwined to his own, his hands running through his hair and it's everything Morrissey has ever wanted, everything he's been dreaming of since Johnny first knocked on his mother's door, saving him from a life of dullness and futility... and yet.  
And yet it's Morrissey who interrupts his own moment of bliss to gently push Johnny away, his hands on his shoulders.  
And it's still Morrissey who makes a point of looking him in the eyes as he utters those fatal words:  
"I know you think you want this, but trust me, you don't."  
"What? Oh Moz, give over-".  
Johnny laughs as he tries to kiss him again, but Morrissey backs away.  
"We've both been drinking and none of us is sober, not really. And it would be too easy to use that as a justification with which to quench the regret that will inevitably hit you tomorrow morning."  
Johnny's smile finally fades.  
"I have every right to protect myself from the barrage of epithets that your wife will unleash on me once she finds out about this."  
"She would never do anything like that and you know it."  
"I don't know anything and neither do you."  
There's a charged, painful pause as Johnny slumps on the bed.  
"I thought this was what you wanted. And I-"  
"It is. But not like this. And tomorrow you'll thank me."  
Something about Morrissey's tone, how categorical it sounds, is what prompts Johnny to finally get up and head for the door.  
"Don't count on it."  
He says with a bitter grin before exiting and leaving Morrissey with his solitude, the very characteristic that makes him such a successful performer AND such a miserable human, the fulcrum on which the paradox of his entire existence is based.  
And yet, as he lies alone on his bed, he feels something else stirring in his chest.  
Something that feels suspiciously like relief.

_Why?_  
He would ask himself that question many times over the following years and the only answer he could give himself, the one which made it easiest for him to sleep at night was that, after all, you can't feed all five senses just to neglect the sixth.


End file.
